A Canadian Heroine, Volume 1 eBook

Mrs. Costello laughed. “Indeed, my dear,
I can’t tell. If she does not now, I suppose
she intends to.”

“But that can’t be right. Mamma,
I am certain you do not think that kind of marriage
right.”

“Not for all people, certainly. But for
any one who is dear to me I would far rather have
a marriage of ‘that kind’ than one founded
on the hasty, utterly unreasonable fancy which girls
often call love.”

Lucia blushed crimson, but would not give up her point.
“I am sure if I married a man I did not love,
I should hate him in three months,” she said.

“I do not think you and Bella are much alike,”
Mrs. Costello answered; “and as for her, perhaps
it may comfort you to know that I have speculated
a little on this subject, and I have some suspicion
that there may be more sentiment in the affair then
she allows.”

Lucia started up. “Really, mamma, I am
so glad,” she cried. “Only, why should
she be so stupid?”

“I don’t think even you, Lucia, would
be pleased to see Bella and Doctor Morton enacting
the same role as Magdalen and Harry Scott.”

“I am sure I should not. It would be too
ridiculous. But just look at Mr. and Mrs. Bellairs,
they seem perfectly happy; and Mr. and Mrs.
Leigh must have been so, in spite of everything.
Maurice told me he believed his mother had never regretted
her marriage; and that was certainly a love match.”

“Mine was a ‘love match,’ Lucia,
and brought me misery unimaginable. Hush, say
no more at present.”

CHAPTER VIII.

Bella’s wedding-day rose as fair and bright
as a day could be. The waning summer seemed to
have returned to the freshness of early June, and
to have determined that the bride, whatever else might
be wanting, should have all the blessing sunshine
could give her. Lucia, however, after that first
eager look out at the weather which we naturally give
on the morning of a fete-day, began to be conscious
of a mood far too depressed and uneasy to be in harmony
with either the weather or the occasion. Partly
perhaps it was that her eyes had turned from habit
to Maurice’s window, which when he was at home
was always open early, but whose closed up, solitary
look now, reminded her of his absence; partly that
the words her mother had spoken the previous evening
lingered in her mind, and not only brought back more
forcibly than ever all her puzzled and anxious thought
about the past and future, but seemed to throw a dark
but impalpable cloud over the happiness of the present.

But there was too much business to be done for her
to spend time in dreaming, and by the time she was
ready for breakfast, the inclination to dream had
almost past away. After breakfast, and after the
various daily affairs which in the small household
fell to her share to attend to, there were flowers
to be gathered, and a short visit to Mr. Leigh to
be paid; and by the time all this was done, it was
time to dress.